No I don’t mean coke. I’m referring to our constant obsession with Cyberspace. Guys used to pull on their dicks in public. Now whether it’s in a bar or the gym or on the beach or in the mall, it’s their smartphone that’s their closest buddy. (Maybe because it’s always hard, ya think?) Well, one of Lauderdale’s weekly gay papers recently ran two opposing stories on the twenty-first century phenomenon known as “social media.” One writer said it had introduced him to people he would have never met in real life; the other said it has made us social cripples and recluses.

I think both are right.

Sure, cyberspace makes it possible to stay in touch with family and friends anywhere in the country or the world in an instant as if they were right there, and meet a whole lot of virtual buddies from Detroit to Dubai. But also, let’s be honest, isn’t the potential for sex also a big part of our C-addiction? For those of us on the prowl, str8, gay or bi, the hook-up sites and hook-up phone apps make cyber-sexual encounters, even if you never hook-up for real, as easy as some keystrokes and a flip through your “private pics” gallery. Funny, how we’ll release pics of our dick or butt to a total stranger half way around the world just because he’s hot. And in places like the boonies (where I’m at right now in rural Pennsylvania), it’s the only way to meet somebody for in-the-flesh sex or seven minutes of jack-off time.

But on the flip side, don’t we also waste a lot of time chatting with people about basically nothing? When we could be doing something more productive like brushing our teeth?

I mean, are we that lonely?

And when it comes to hooking up or even just reaching out to a hottie, do we find most of the time our wooing goes nowhere? Or worse, treat guys’ pics as our own private porn site without ever letting him know?

Plus, having chatted with under-thirty guys on the web and then meeting them upfront and personal, I find social skills are going down the toilet. One twenty five year old cutie kept stalking me on Growl’r for weeks. When we finally connected at his place, the sex was over literally in ten minutes and I don’t think he had uttered more than three words to me. I had to go to the gym to work off my Viagra.

So much for the romance my publishers kept telling me they want juiced-up in my books.

On a larger front, I wonder how these guys operate on-the-job? You just can’t ”delete” or “block” somebody, like your boss maybe, even if he’s a shithead. Plus a university study just out concluded str8 married couples (and I’m sure it applies to us too) who are Twitter addicts have a higher rate of divorce, maybe because they’re fondling their phones instead of one another.